


Honour to the Fallen

by Linky



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Happy Ending, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-13
Updated: 2016-04-12
Packaged: 2018-06-01 23:20:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6540820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linky/pseuds/Linky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Years spent beneath the city, scheming with rats and thieves. Years pining away for a man who loved his Guild more than anything. It was time, Ysolde thought, time to see the sky again. </p>
<p>She was a hero now, she supposed. She was the ideal being, and what did ideal beings do? The Companions would have everyone believe it was fighting for honour. And why not? Out in the open, battling beasts both human and animal, nothing could be better. If only the ever so un-washed Vilkas and his ugly sneer would stop looming over her whenever she came near the silverware...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue - The Departure

            “So, you’re leaving us, lass.” At the sound of Brynjolf’s lilting voice, Ysolde turned and looked up from the boots she was tying. She heard the unspoken words, saw their reflected meaning in the slant of his shoulders – _you’re leaving me._

            “I’m going to come back.” Ysolde replied softly, not wanting to get his hopes up – or hers, for that matter – but not having the heart to dash them completely.

            “Probably.” He corrected, leaning against the wall. The candle light in the Cistern flickered over his hair, making it seem more like a flame than it usually did. His eyes were very green, the same colour leaves went when sun shone through them, and their gaze was unwavering. She could feel him searching her profile, looking for some answer to a question he would not ask.

            “Probably.” She agreed, her voice was low and quiet, “The guild has almost returned to its former glory. I’m not needed so much now…here, at least. There’s always someone that wants something from me.”

            “The last time you left,” there was a bite to his voice now, as the memory resurfaced, “you nearly came back to us in little pieces. I hope you’re not planning on repeating yourself.”

            “Hardly.” Ysolde barked out a laugh, rising to her feet, “I’m all out of Alduin World-Eaters to tear me to shreds.” He didn’t seem amused.

            “There are still dragons out there.”

            “And murderers, and vampires, and necromancers, and bears, probably a troll or two as well.” She winked at him saucily, “And definitely thieves. Lots of ‘em.”

            “If you were trying to make me feel better, lass, it’s not working.” But the corners of Brynjolf’s mouth twitched up regardless. When Ysolde moved towards the table opposite her bed, he joined to stand beside her, watching as she selected various potions and ingredient to take with her. He’d never understood, and he’d said this himself, how she could tell what different combinations of berries and flowers could do. The look of horror on his face when she had revealed her discovery of their effects had been mainly been done through eating them and hoping for the best, was worth all the stomach pains she had suffered.

            “If you glare any harder at those snowberries, Brynjolf, they might just burst into flame.” This resulted in him returning his accusatory scowl to her, so she stopped her packing and regarded him steadily, “I asked you to come with me, that first time. You said no, quite emphatically. I’m not even going to bother asking you again. And you’ve always known Riften isn’t my home. The Thieves Guild isn’t my home. I’m a fighter, Bryn, I like charging into battle and slaying my enemies. I’m good at it. This sneaking around and pickpocketing things? I can do it, but it’s not easy. Stealth? I can use it, and by the Divines if it hasn’t saved my life more times than I can count, but it doesn’t call to me. Look,” she unsheathed one of her blades, “I had to spend _hours_ at these last night, trying to get rid of the rust that’s formed from lack of use. That’s shameful to me.”

            “And of course there is not honour in being thief.” He quipped bitterly. Ysolde rolled her eyes, this is an argument they’d had before. It was a strange argument, as both Brynjolf and Ysolde held the same belief, but it was the former that believed secretly she was lying about it.

            “Oh, Nocturnal’s ass, Brynjolf. The majority of the coin in my purse at this very moment, was looted from dead bodies. I don’t care a fig for honour.”

            “Then I don’t understand what’s got you running off to join the Companions!” He was finally exasperated. Frustrated with himself because he could not bring himself to say what he’d wanted to for months now; to ask what he knew she would refuse.

            “Don’t you?” She set the mortar and pestle she had picked up, down a little too firmly, sending the potion bottles rattling. Brynjolf flinched at the sound, and she could hear the murmuring voices of her fellow thieves wondering what was going on in her secreted little nook of the Cistern.

            “Then allow me to explain for you. I am _Dovahdin_. A dragon maiden. The Dragonborn. Do you know what that’s like? To live in secrecy, hidden beneath cities and sneaking out at night to work in the shadows. Could you picture a dragon doing it? We are the same, dragons and I. I hunt, I feast, I fight. I _tried_ but I feel trapped here. There are walls everywhere, so many walls! I want to see the _stars_ , Bryn. I want to see them every night without worrying about whether their light will give me away. I want to climb to the Throat of the World and shout my Thu’um from very top. I want to grow wings and fly across Tamriel.” He was clenching and unclenching his fists, the muscles of his jaw working. It was not a life he could take part in, she knew that. She wished it were otherwise. Just as she was meant for open skies, he excelled in the shadows.

He had never said anything, not directly, but there had been some shared moments. Moments just as this, fraught with tension and words neither of them would speak. Some soft touches here, or an unnecessary hand on the shoulder there, and one night after some heavy drinking, they had even kissed. But it had never gone beyond that. Oh, Ysolde would have been able to live with coming and going from the guild, caging herself partially, but Brynjolf would never give up even a moment to be with her. There was…affection for her on his part, but his love belonged to the guild. His flat rejection of her offer to travel together was to this day embarrassing to recall. It was amazing that one little ‘no’ said in just the right tone could relay how repugnant he had found the thought of leaving the guild for just a moment, even for her. Just as well, he was not made for battling dragons.

            “I’ve never heard your Thu’um before.” He said quietly, “Karliah said, back when we were fleeing the Nightingale sanctuary, that you used it to slow time. I was unconscious at the time, but her voice still fills with awe when she mentions it.”

            “I could show you now, if you liked.” Ysolde offered, “Just a small one.”

            “No.” There it was again. That ‘no’. As though she was offering him something that he should never have considered and she should never have asked. She sighed and returned to packing her alchemy tools and ingredients. There was an uneasy silence between them now, the both of them hyperaware of the other’s slightest movements. Ysolde could almost feel Brynjolf thinking; hear the sounds of his mind turning thoughts over and trying to decide whether or not he should say something. By the time he’d made up his mind, she had shouldered her pack and was looking at him sadly.

            “Well, this is it.” She didn’t know what to do. How did you part with someone who was your friend, but was also more than that and yet at the same time was nothing to her?

            “You’re coming back.” He settled for finally, grinning.

            “Probably.” The words were heavy, but they needed saying and they needed saying from her, “Goodbye, Bryn. Take care, will you? I’ll write if I can, though I wouldn’t expect a response.” She offered him her hand to shake, and he looked at it before nodding, as though the action had helped him come to a decision. He took it, and shook. A look passed between them during the brief contact, and they both knew she wouldn’t write, and he wouldn’t read it if she did. It was better off that way.

            “I’ll make sure the lads know not to touch your things when you’re gone. I know you’d hate for your valuables to have been…appropriated.” Neither of them mentioned that she had packed everything that was significant to her. He held her hand for just that moment longer, staring at her face long and hard. He wanted to memorise every angle, scar and, curve. The deep red of her hair; the golden amber of her eyes. Then she was removing herself, and walking away.

            He stood there, in the place where they had last spoken, for some long minutes. Old conversations and memories ran through his head.

           

_“Come with me, Bryn.” She was almost pleading, excitement brimming from her very eyes, “Can you picture it? What an adventure!” She was absolutely filled with energy at the thought, dancing from foot to foot in efforts to contain herself. Go with her? He’d nearly laughed in her face, all that had stopped him was the thought of her crushed look if he did. She was pretty enough, he’d give her that, but she’d have to be a mighty beauty to tempt him away from the Guild. There was only one mistress for Brynjolf, and it was Nocturnal herself._

_“No.” She paused then, reminding him of a butterfly poised on a flower – a butterfly filled with raw, untampered power, “I’m sorry lass. But it’ll never happen.” She drew back from him like the crack of a whip. She was not crestfallen, but it was as though the buzz of energy had been removed from his sight, he was no longer worthy of seeing it._

_It was Karliah that brought her back to the Guild. How she managed to find her at all was a mystery. He remembered the feeling of his heart thumping so hard against his ribcage, he feared that the others might actually hear it. By the time Ysolde had left, he half wished he’d said he would go with her. Not only because he’d felt a brief moment of wanderlust, but since he had first refused her, she had withdrawn from him – giving him only guarded responses where before she had shared her truths quite openly. Brynjolf had never realised how much he valued her company, until she no longer wished to share it with him._

_She looked tiny, bundled up in the cloaks as she was, and lying limp on a bed. Whispers surrounded her return, but it was Karliah that confirmed. Their little Ysolde had slain Alduin. She’d travelled to all the wild and unkind places of Skyrim; fought giants and necromancers all on her own. And he could have seen her do these amazing things if he had had the courage._

_She didn’t wake for days, and even when she did was only for short snippets to be forced to eat something or drink medicine. Her torso was torn from dragon talons, and the healer said she had suffered bleeding from inside._

_When she finally woke, and was lucid, she looked at the faces around her suspiciously, demanding for the return of her blades. She was ferocious, and in the face of what she had done, terrifying. Of course she explained a while later, with profuse apologies, that it always took some time for her to grow accustomed to the new dragon soul within her. And Alduin’s soul was not an easy thing to contain. He hadn’t even known, before she left, that she was the Dragonborn._

_Their friendship had reformed quickly, but he didn’t miss how she longer leant into his touches. Whatever chance there had been for them to share something more than friendship had died._

_There was a bitter taste in his mouth as, sitting in the Bee and Barb, he watched her flirt with a mage. He was always in the pub, pestering her to take him along on one of her adventures. Finally she relented. Brynjolf didn’t know what had happened while they were away, but they had quickly become very close. A slight sideways look from the mage could send her into peals of laughter._

_Every night she now spent with him, up at the tavern and often neither of them where anywhere to be found. If Brynjolf enquired, he was informed that they had gone out into the woods on some quest or another. One day, he found that the mage no longer lived in Riften at all._

_“Oh that,” she responded when questioned about it, “I appointed him as my steward. He’s living on my estate. Keeps the giants away, seeing someone occasionally shoot fireballs into the sky.” She flushed when she realised she had neglected to tell any of her Thieves Guild companions she was Thane of Falkreath._

_But the mage was gone, and that had been good enough for Brynjolf._

            His hand came up and rubbed over his face. He’d absolutely fallen for her. It had been more than a year since he rejected her offer of travelling with her, and in truth it had been the right thing for the guild, but some days he regretted it.

Apparently they’d kissed, she remembered it quite clearly, but he had been quite a lot drunker, and nothing of that night could be recalled. Yet another regret. She had said to him, after he asked how it was, that it ‘was about as weird as could be expected between friends’. He’d nearly been winded by the idea. He knew he was charming, and he knew she had admired him quite a lot. But that was the way of things, wasn’t it? Just when he was developing a genuine interest, hers had dwindled. And it was his own fault too, if he could have, he’d have kicked himself soundly in the shin.

The guild would always be home, but without Ysolde, it was going to be an empty home. That girl had pulled the place out of the dirt and set them all soundly back on their feet. There was a maturity that had come to her after defeating Alduin, one that had changed the excitement she once had to grim determination. Everything was duty now, she was Skyrim’s foot soldier and, Divines, she looked _tired_ , all the time. A young woman like her shouldn’t look wearied of the world. It just wasn’t right.

He had thought, for just a moment, that she might ask him along once again. It was a different answer forming in his mind to her previous request. But she hadn’t asked, and he certainly hadn’t been brave enough to offer. What could he do, anyway? Wait around in Whiterun whilst she made a name for herself amongst the famed and honourable Companions? It was not a faction he had any power in, and there was not much help he could offer when it came to full frontal confrontation in a fight. He liked his shadows too well, and they him. Perhaps she had seen that, perhaps she had known that outside the guild, he was of no use to her. She had admired him with a youthful glee, those days before the fall of Alduin, but that young woman was gone and she assessed him with cool albeit affectionate eyes, and found him lacking.

“Take care, lass.” He murmured to her, as though a shade of her presence still lingered – for him it probably always would. 


	2. Chapter 1 - A New Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ysolde's life with companions begins, and it seems as though it's off to a rocky start.

There was not much welcome for Ysolde when she finally settled her feet in Whiterun. Lydia, who was her state-appointed house carl didn’t care much for her, and resented her long absences from the city. As for the Companions themselves, well they were mistrustful of outsiders. They considered themselves to be a family, and each one had earned that ranking in combat. Of course her title of Dragonborn _could_ do much for her petition to join them, but she would rather earn it with her own merits, so that was one secret she decided to tuck away. With it was one other, the Thieves Guild. She certainly wasn’t going to be spreading about that she was high in their ranks. There were other things she kept secret, things that she had not shared with her guild family, things that only faithful Marcurio knew and even that was by accident.

“Archmage!” He exclaimed one night, as they were camped in the forests surrounding Riften, “Mara’s garters, Ysolde! You can’t scamper around with ruffians like me, you’ve got a college to run!” She tactfully avoided pointing that anyone who described themselves as a ruffian likely held no claims to the title.

“I am running it.” She had responded, giving him a speaking look. The college of Winterhold wasn’t looked upon with any favour since some of the mages there had accidentally sent a good portion of the cliff-top city into the sea below. She needed fingers in quite a lot of pies in order to restore the college’s reputation, and that meant working away from the college. As for the teaching of novices, well that duty remained with those who did it best, and they’d been doing since before she tumbled through their gates. She hadn’t meant to enter the college, but after a dragon had attacked Winterhold, and she had saved the city, she was nearly dragged there by the tips of her pointed ears.

Shaking herself now, Ysolde removed herself from the memory, and opened the door to Breezehome – her house in Whiterun. Beside her, Lydia glowered, fumbling to light a lantern. The house was very still inside, and dark as the void. The air within seemed stagnant as though it had not been disturbed for many months. Or years, if she was feeling honest.

“There isn’t any furniture.” Ysolde said, startled to realise it. This met with only baleful silence, before her carl deigned to answer her.

“I don’t recall you ever buying any.”

“Right…” she eyed the space, glad for the traveling equipment she carried with her. With a fire burning in the pit, it would be quite the cosy establishment and if all went well, there would be a bed for her with the Companions.

Lydia claimed that she would see about obtaining some firewood, and ducked out, leaving Ysolde with only the dim light of the lantern. Brynjolf would like it, she mused to herself, it was just big enough to live in, but not so big as to draw attention. Certainly, it had the potential to be quite a fine home, but never grand. It was perfectly unremarkable in every imaginable way. It wasn’t likely Brynjolf would ever see it, or if he did he would not know it as hers. But there was no more time for Brynjolf, and with an ease that comes with watching men and women fight and fall beside you, she shrugged off the memory of his existence and tucked it away, where she would not think of him for a long time to come.

With the return of Lydia, a fire was lit and frigid air that had rapidly seeped in from the open door, took flight and fled their presence. Disappearing again for a short time, Lydia brought back with her a crate of supplies. Some dried meat and fruit; pickled vegetables in a jar.

“This should tide you over for at least a weak. If you want fresh food, you’ll have to buy it from the markets in the morning.”

“Lydia!” Ysolde called after her as the broad, nord woman turned to go, “I am grateful, thank you. I did not mean to be gone so long.”

“As you say, my Thane.” Came the biting reply, followed by the heavy thud of the front door. A rueful chuckle escaped through Ysolde’s lips as she set to unfolding her bedroll for the night, nords were so prickly. She fervently hoped, as she settled her head on a makeshift rucksack pillow, that the Companions would be more open.

It is a dreadful thing to go sleep with such great expectations of the following day, only to find them soundly flattened when that day came. As it was, she was sitting on the dirt of the Companions training grounds, a pain in her backside where she had been unceremoniously dumped on it.

“Listen, whelp,” this was from the burly nord who had done the thrashing of said posterior, “you don’t come in here with your tricks. We fight like honourable men and women, and we expect our whelps to do the same. That means, no sand in the eyes and no tricky fingers on pressure points. And don’t think I didn’t see that fireball you were toying with. When you brawl with shield-siblings, you don’t do it using advantages they don’t have. You’re equally matched.” His name was Vilkas, and he had the most magnificent glare she had ever seen. The man could sour milk sooner than a ghost could say ‘boo’.

“Equally matched?” Ysolde responded, making her eyes wide and her voice sweet, “Why, I had _no idea_ you thought so much of my brute strength and ham-hands to think that I was an equal match for you! ‘Tis a wonder I should have to brawl with you at all! Since we are equals, I really needn’t have attempted this test.”

“ _You_ aren’t my shield-sister.” He quipped gruffly, notching up the ferocity of his glare. Ysolde smiled at him benignly.

“Precisely.” There were some spectators to their scuffle, though it had been embarrassingly short-lived. One of the men watching looked so much like this Vilkas that it was no stretch to assume they were brothers. Whilst others held back their chuckles, hiding them behind grunts or coughs, he burst out in robust laughter, slapping his knee.

“Oh, I’d watch out for this one Vilkas, she’s sharp enough without her blade that she might just slice you in two.” This earned his a grunt of disapproval. From her place on the dirt, Ysolde had the most unflattering view up his nose and she really couldn’t help but notice that the folks in Skyrim don’t much care for taking baths, and who could blame them, in this cold. Though, she herself wasn’t looking too pristine. She had smudges of sweat-marked dirt on her face and, lifting a hand to ease an itch, dirt in her ears too. That last discovery drew her mouth into a flat line.

“Get up.” Vilkas scoffed, watching her climb awkwardly to her feet with his arms crossed angrily over his breast, “For some reason Skjor thinks you’ve got what it takes, so we’re going to try this once more. You fight well and proper, whelp, as befits a companion.”

“Whatever you say, Ham-hands.” She topped this with a wink, ignoring the way he fumed at her insolence. If he was going to come up with nasty nicknames for her, she was going to return the favour. Whelp! She’d fought who knows how many dragons, and this barrel of a man thinks he’s her better because his meaty hands had nearly knocked her from her boots? Phaw! She’d show him. Secretly, she just wanted to let loose one little _fus_ shout, just enough to send him flat on his hairy arse. All this nonsense about being equally matched, how in Tamriel did anyone manage to beat him? They’d have to be part giant!

Now that she was standing again, he didn’t look quite as burly as he had, and his armour wasn’t what anyone would describe as slimming. In fact, it really wasn’t created for mobility purposes, just protection. So, with that in mind, she began a game of weaving movements, darting from place to place as his heavy swings continued to miss. Tire him out enough, and all she would have to do was blow on him to topple him over.

“Don’t dodge like a coward!” He roared, “Either meet the blows, or return them!” but Ysolde continued to flummox him. At some stage, she rolled cleanly between his legs, springing up behind him and tickling his ear. She laughed so hard at his indignant expression, that he managed to clip her jaw.

“No, this is enough.” He muttered, “She’s not fit for us. Look at her! She’s nothing but tricks and empty words. She plays a coward’s game, and we’ll not have her kind amongst us.” Those gathered looked at her critically, the majority nodded, but she could see Vilkas’ brother looking sceptical.

“My kind?” Ysolde questioned, bristling, “What exactly is that supposed to mean? Are the Companions only for Nords? Elves aren’t welcomed among you?” She spat at his feet to show exactly what she thought of him.

“No, that’s not what I-.” He fumbled awkwardly, before remembering who he was bungling his apology to, and sneered, “Elves are more than welcome, _you_ are not. You’re a slimy character, and weak to boot.” They stared at each other in mutual silence for a hard moment, and it was slowly dawning on Vilkas that perhaps he hadn’t worded himself as politely as he should have. There was a dangerous gleam to her eyes, and suddenly he remembered the fireball she had called upon so readily. Mages were always a little unstable, never knew when they were going to set your pants on fire. Ysolde, for her part, was trying her damnest to not use a dragon-shout to send him flying halfway to Markarth. Alright, if this man wanted her to punch him, by Akatosh, she was going to punch him.

Vilkas had just enough time to register that it was indeed a fist that was headed towards his face at quite an intimidating speed, before it landed squarely on his jaw. He thought for a moment he may have seen all nine Divines before the world stopped spinning. His brother was there in an instant, slinging Vilkas’ arm over his shoulder and lending support.

“Farkas…?”

“I’m going to wager a guess and say that you’ve lost this round, brother.” Farkas replied, “I’ll tell Skjor we’ve got a new recruit.”

So her life began with the Companions. Vilkas still looked at her as though she were something he had scraped off his boot, but Farkas seemed to like her well enough. And her friendship with him irked Vilkas greatly, therefore it was all the more precious to her. Immature of her as that was. Aela had grown rather fond of her, in a gruff and primal way, offering for them to go hunting together. Vilkas still called her whelp whenever he deigned to speak to her, but the other members of the Companions had learnt her name and used it.

Of course there were times when she was not with companions, time she spent with the Greybeards in quiet meditation. Even Paarthurnax would sometimes speak to her. It was a great honour, whenever she was given time to discuss philosophy with the ancient dragon, he would not let her climb aboard his back and soar the skies, but he would give her new insights and words of wisdom. Sometimes, when she was feeling particularly cheeky, she would shout her Thu’um to the sky and summon Odahviing. He was never pleased when he realised that she wasn’t in any danger, and only summoned him to beg him to take to the skies with her on his back. He always agreed though, and then they would hunt together, _Dovah_ and _Dovahdin._ The latter would raise her voice in shout whenever the former roared across the land.

Then there was the Winterhold college to take care of. The Archmage couldn’t stay away the whole time, there were matters of business she needed to attend to. Her progress within the Thieves Guild had been commendable, using the contacts she had made to secure the college’s import in certain social affairs. There was a time when no noble in Skyrim would so much as think of having a social gathering without including a member of the college. Ysolde was going to see their glory restored once and for all.

But all this meant that a considerable portion of her year was divided up in traveling between High Hrothgaar and Winterhold, and very little time with the companions themselves. It was months before she would return to them and complete one of Aela’s jobs. More often than not, she forced her to work with Vilkas, probably in some vain attempt at nurturing a bond between them, and this drove Ysolde to stay away as long as she could. He was abominably arrogant, without any just cause for it – though his skill with a greatsword was praiseworthy – and found fault with absolutely everything she did. She couldn’t even breathe without him looking at her as though she was doing it wrong.

She had just returned from some long months on the road, and hoped to spend a night at Breezehome in comfort. It was now fully furnished, along with a certain Lydia to ensure the hearth fire was always tended. With Ysolde’s extended stay in Whiterun had come a grudging sort of bond between Thane and carl, and sometimes Ysolde even took Lydia with her on some her more mundane errands for the Companions. But she knew something was amiss the moment she stepped foot in her house to see Vilkas waiting for her.

“You never said you were a Thane of Whiterun.” He accused, looking uncomfortable in one of the small chairs by the fire.

“You never said you have soup for brains, yet here we are.”

“Ysolde!” Lydia squawked at her, hurrying to apologise, “She’s always testy when she comes home. Pay no heed to her.” She was doing something awfully odd with her eyes and took Ysolde a moment to realise she was batting her eyelashes at him. The woman actually thought Vilkas was attractive! _Vilkas_!

“That giant must have bonked you harder on the head than we first suspected.” Ysolde muttered, heaving her pack from her shoulders. But nobody had heard, or was listening to her any more. If they start making doe eyes, she thought with a shudder, I might be sick.

“Testy?” Vilkas seemed confused by the idea, “She’s as she always is. Cocky and neglecting her duties to the Companions.”

“The Dragonb- _ow_!” Lydia whirled to face Ysolde who had hurled an apple at her head with expert precision. It took her a moment to realise why her Thane had abused her so cruelly, “I mean, there was a dragon that kept her from returning sooner, have I got that right _my Thane_?” She added Ysolde’s title, dripping with sarcasm.

“Oh yes, the nasty buggers.” Ysolde nodded her head solemnly. She had sworn Lydia to secrecy, making her promise that she would not reveal anything about Ysolde being the Dragonborn unless given implicit instructions to do so. But her house carl was wont to brag about her, and sometimes forgot herself.

“You’ve fought dragons?” Vilkas asked, disbelief tinging his every word.

“Now could _I_ ever face a dragon?” Ysolde asked him in a honeyed tone, “Without burly Vilkas to swoop to my rescue and use his ham-hands to slap the dragon to submission? Perish the thought! You know I couldn’t survive without some sort of butch man to heave a sword in any direction away from himself.”

“Must everything be a joke to you?” His voice was low, gruff and infinitely weary.

“Only you, Vilkas.” He snarled at her in response to this, but she was used to his more brutish reactions to her quips, and ignored it, “Why _are_ you in my house? What do you want?”

“Kodlak’s funeral.” Vilkas barked, “For some reason the Circle think you’re good enough to be there. He would have wanted you there, too. Just you make sure come to Skyforge tomorrow morning.” He rose then, and left her house, pushing past her roughly. Ysolde turned her eyes to Lydia, who was watching him go with a grin plastered to her face wide enough to split it in half.

“There’s a true nord, if ever I saw one.” She breathed, “You’re a lucky woman.”

“Lucky?” Ysolde scoffed, plonking herself down by the fire and reaching for a bottle of Cyrodillic brandy, “If you like him so much, _you_ deal with his sour moods. He’s got a terrible temper and he enjoys taking it out on me. It’s been a year and more and he’s still as unfriendly as ever. You know, I thought he’d thaw out a bit, like the rest of the Companions. But whenever he sees me, he goes all stiff and grouchy.” She punctuated her statement with a childish mimic of him.

“You’re quite lovely, you know.” Lydia said this as though it would explain everything. When the impact didn’t have its intended effect on her Thane, she rolled her eyes, “And you’ve often said how much you like Farkas. If what you’ve told me is entirely correct, he and his twin are almost identical. Maybe he’s jealous.”

“How petty!” Ysolde cried, “It’s not as though Farkas is suddenly going to forsake his brother’s company for mine. I’m hardly that enchanting, and I’m not that fond of him.”

“You don’t deal much with men, other than to beat them senseless, do you?” Lydia enquired in exasperation.

“Being the Dragonborn hardly leaves time for fraternisation, Lydia.” She hadn’t meant to snap at her, but with all she had expected to do, there was no wonder she had never quite found the time to flirt and go courting. Marcurio had often been her bed mate, out in the Riften forest. He was handsome in a pretty way, and had an easy humour that he was ready to share. But that hadn’t involved a lot of courting. He had been rather blunt about it, in fact, which she had appreciated. Between them was only friendship though, and their coupling rose from the thrill of battle and the closeness shared between two people when they were alone in the dark. He certainly hadn’t been jealous of her affections, nor she of his.

“But I’m not entirely daft, I understand where you’re going with this and you can stop those thoughts right there. I’d rather bed a troll, to be perfectly honest. And Vilkas probably would too. In fact, he probably has. He’s so unpleasant, no decent man or woman would go near him with a barge pole!”

“I’d go near him.” Lydia offered most unhelpfully, giggling like a young girl when Ysolde gave her a disgusted look. Lydia bid her Thane a merry goodnight, with a lewd wriggling of her brows and a hearty laugh following her to her bed, but Ysolde remained by the fire for a time longer. She had hoped to miss Kodlak’s funeral. When he died, she couldn’t help but feel it had been her fault. If she had been there sooner. If she had fought harder. If she had completely wiped out the Silver Hand when she had wanted to, instead of waiting for them to make a move, then he would have lived on. He would have lived on, and he could have enjoyed his days, hopefully finding a cure of his lycanthropic curse.

“I wish you were in Sovngarde now, old friend.” Ysolde murmured, holding up her bottle of brandy in a private toast. It hadn’t been easy after his death, not only because she had to deal with the loss of his leadership and company. Aela had demanded that she retrieve the shattered pieces of Wuuthrad. Why she had been rewarded with the famous battleaxe, Ysolde would never know. She wielded dual swords, her arms wouldn’t even be able to swing a heavy battleaxe with any semblance of usefulness. But the quest had been fine with her, she would have done as much of her own accord, but Aela had, in no uncertain terms, made it clear that Vilkas was to be her companion on this voyage. It wasn’t a problem going with the man on small quests – root out some bandits here, slay some necromancers there – but larger tasks required trust. There were many things that Vilkas had for her aplenty; dislike; disdain; disagreement; dis-anything. But not trust. He would hardly turn his back on her in a fight. As if she would actually stab him in the back! A dagger wouldn’t get through his thick skin anyway…not that she had thought about it. She wasn’t going to lie, she _had_ considered setting his backside on fire more than once, but it simply wasn’t fitting for the Archmage to go around setting people on fire. Of course none of the Companions _knew_ she held claims to that title, but it was the principle.

Vilkas had seemed a little different after they returned from their journey. He was as grumpy as usual, but she just didn’t feel the same sting in his insults. And who could blame him? Kodlak had been like a father to him and Farkas, and his mourning ran deep.  But after all these years – three if she were to be exact – he still couldn’t trust her a fraction, even after they had experienced such an emotional event by each other’s side. It irked her incredibly, because she knew she could trust him even though she liked him about as much as she liked sitting on a thorn.

“Maybe that’s his problem.” She slurred, the brandy affecting her more quickly now that her stomach was empty, “Maybe he fell into a patch of brambles and has a thorn poking him in the backside. He can’t reach it himself, and he’s too embarrassed to ask someone for help. I’ll ask him tomorrow.” Ysolde confirmed with herself firmly, before rising unsteadily to her feet. She had never been able to drink well, being an infrequent practitioner of it and having a small frame, so she knew when she’d had just about enough to still feel decent in the morning.

Discarding her armour in a haphazard way, Ysolde didn’t bother to dress herself in a night shirt. The house was stuffy from the fire and her bones were weary. As bare as a babe, she crawled beneath her blankets and let herself succumb to the sweet oblivion of sleep.

Somewhere in the small hours of dawn, a rooster heralded the beginning of a new day. Ysolde jerked awake, her mouth tasting sour and her eyes throbbing from tiredness. She wasn’t sure if it was the rooster that had awakened her, for she had been vaguely aware of drifting to sleep again for a few moments after she heard the sound. In a bleary stupor, she reached for the pitcher of water beside her bed and drank from it deeply, not bothering to use a cup. Waking up had to be one of the hardest battles she had ever faced. At least dragons she could count on to stay gone for about a week before another one demanded her attention. But waking up was a horror she was forced to face every day. Not to say she didn’t enjoy being awake, but it was the process of reaching wakefulness that was perhaps the bane of her existence.

“Oh good, you’re up.” Lydia poked her head through the open doorway, already dressed for the day. Ysolde goggled at her in dismay. No matter what, Lydia was always ready for anything. Ripped your pants? Never fear, Lydia keeps a sewing kit handy. Lost your shoes? No worries, Lydia has a spare pair just for you. Need a humanoid soul to fill a black soulgem? Well would you believe it, she probably has one of those too.

“Are you even human?” Ysolde mumbled, throwing herself back and ignoring her housecarl’s disdainful muttering about her Thane’s careless manner of storing her armour.

“No.” Lydia warned, “You are not going back to sleep.” Mercilessly, she tore the blankets from Ysolde and crossed her arms in satisfaction as she the shivering result of her handiwork.

“You are a cruel, heartless woman.”

“I am.” Lydia confirmed, “What’s more is Vilkas is waiting for you downstairs, as you overslept, and if you don’t get up,” she raised her voice slightly, “I’m going to ask him to come in here and carry you out and then the whole town will see you naked.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” Ysolde muttered darkly, before remembering that particular incident had been in Falkreath and it been a very dark night to boot. Marcurio had thought it would be hilarious to steal her clothes while she bathed in the lake.

“Ysolde!”

“That threat doesn’t work.” Ysolde sighed, sitting up and rubbing at her face, “Do you really think he would come in her knowing I’m not wearing any clothes? I once disguised myself in Foresworn armour and the man nearly vomited. You should have seen how pale he was, I thought he was a snowman.” But she didn’t risk Lydia’s ire further, for she could see her housecarl’s hands lingering near the pitcher and suspected she was very close to earning a face full of cold water.

With some help from Lydia, she was bundled neatly into her best armour, before something resembling a style was done to her hair. Whilst she was being manhandled, Ysolde reached for her brushing stick and began to clean her teeth. It was made from an aromatic tree and carved into a sharp point on one end, and a splayed brush formation on the other. She waited until Lydia had left her chambers to brush her tongue and spit out the muck in a basin. It was amazing how rejuvenating it was to have a fresh mouth. Before she made her way to where she could almost feel Vilkas was brooding, Ysolde looked at the hooded mask that matched her armour. It was beautifully made, but not appropriate. She didn’t want to turn up to Kodlak’s funeral and not be recognisable.

“That…” Vilkas trailed off, looking at her when she finally joined him by the hearth, “I have never seen armour like that before.”

“No?” Ysolde kept her tone light, “It’s quite old.” From this he understood clearly that she wasn’t going to discuss it further. What would she say anyway? Oh yes, this is armour given to me when I joined the Nightingales which is an elite faction of the Thieves Guild, who work in service the daedric prince, Nocturnal. Either he would think she had gone mad, or he would clobber her on the spot.

“Say,” Ysolde eyed him curiously, “are you feeling alright? You’re very red.” In fact, his cheeks and neck were flushed a very unbecoming shade of pink that made him look like he had spent a little too long in hot water. With that mentioned, he did look very clean.

“Mind your business, whel-.”

“If you call me whelp one more time, Ham-hands, I’m going to be attending two funerals today. I was just trying to be polite, but I see it is a foreign concept to you. Allow me to elaborate.” She ignored his vicious glare with a tremendous effort of will, and continued on, “Sometimes civilised people are polite to one another, to indicate that not only are they both civilised but they are also considerate of one another’s feelings. Especially on days such as this, where it might be the funeral of a mutual friend who had been like a father to one of them. Sometimes, people who are not friends will be polite in efforts to show that there needn’t be any unpleasantness between them this day. But I see my fatal mistake was in assuming you were in the least civilised.” From somewhere behind them, Lydia squawked in indignation, but other than that, only silence met her words.

“If you’re quite done stewing in your inability to comprehend, may we go?” Ysolde gestured to her front door before heading towards it, not bothering to see if Vilkas was following behind. She didn’t need to travel with him, and if he wanted to stay behind and be mollified – at the very least – by Lydia, then he may do as he wished. It was a few minutes after she began striding purposefully towards Skyforge, when a heavy hand landed on her shoulder, whirling her around. Ysolde was then face to face with Vilkas, or rather, face to chest as it were.

“I’m sorry.” He mumbled, looking anything but, “Today is…it is a sad day. I know I snap at you a lot, but it was uncalled for today.” Ysolde was tempted to say that it was not just a sad day for him; that he was selfish for assuming he was the only one mourning. But, she could see the way his shoulders sagged and realised that he did not need more aggravation today.

“I know, Vilkas.” She softened her voice, and risked patting him comfortingly on the arm, “I do understand what you’re feeling. It is not easy to lose someone and feel as though you could have prevented it.” He seemed startled to realise that she had picked out his guilt to easily, and she offered him an uncertain smile, “Today will be hard. Tomorrow will be harder. But there will come a time, and you won’t even realise it, where it stops being hard. By then, I hope you will know it was _not_ your fault and he rests better now than either of us ever will.” Vilkas looked at her uneasily then, and Ysolde had the smarting suspicion that he was hiding something from her. For all the things could be said of the burly Nord, being devious was certainly not amongst them. She had just opened her mouth to question him about it, when he swiftly began taking long strides towards Jorrvaskr, leaving her to trot behind him. Who gave him the right to be so _tall_?

Just as she was prepared to settle with trying to run to keep up with him without appearing as though she were actually doing so, Vilkas paused abruptly, nearly sending her colliding with the mountain that was disguised as his back. They were standing at the base of the stairs behind Jorrvaskr, leading to Skyforge. A few junior members of the Companions were slowly trickling towards the funeral, casting them strange looks.

“We’re to meet in the under-forge after we’ve set Kodlak’s funeral pyre aflame. Aela says there is something for us to do. Try not to look so disappointed.” Vilkas added that last bit on when he saw her face fall. Yet another quest with cheery old Vilkas for company! Oh the joy!

“I’m not.” Ysolde protested, hearing for herself how weak it sounded. Vilkas just quirked a brow before resuming the small trek to Skyforge. _Just me and Ham-hands,_ Ysolde grumbled mentally, _on yet another epic adventure of mutual dislike and insufferable Nord crankiness._ Why not send Farkas with her instead? Yes, he wasn’t the sharpest sword in the armoury, but he was certainly the strongest and by far the most pleasant to be around. Not that Ysolde didn’t have a great affection for Aela, but Farkas was the only one that didn’t either glare at her, or beg her to go bear hunting all the time. As for the new recruits, well they all stared at the senior members of the Companions with admiration that was verging on idolatry.

“Why would you want to hunt bears in the first place? Leave the poor things alone.” Ria, who was still junior member of the Companions despite having been there for longer than Ysolde, was hurrying past her as she muttered this. She cast her an offended look, before moving on. Ysolde sighed, she was going to have to apologise for that remark later, even though it was not aimed at her. Ria sometimes had…delicate sensibilities. It most likely stemmed from the fact that, as a Companion, she was a general failure. Yes, she’d killed a bear _once_. She was yet to repeat anything quite so challenging and the poor girl was aware of that. She’d complained frequently to Kodlak about how her assignments were only ever to clear out a band of wolves or escort drunken brawlers from the tavern.

Reaching Skyforge, Ysolde took her place beside Aela. Though she was the youngest member of the Circle, she was ranked amongst the highest. Vilkas had been offered the position after Skjor’s death, only to refuse it. So it fell to Ysolde, as she was most often his shield-sister. Aela’s battle-worn hands reached out for her arm, and squeezed affectionately. From the corner of her eye, Ysolde could see tears brimming in Aela’s, though the woman would absolutely refuse to shed them. Taking a steadying breath, and gripping her torch like a lifeline, Aela stepped forward and began to speak the traditional words for fallen Companions.

“Before the ancient flame,” Her voice was quiet. But it was not hard to hear, the sounds of life seemed to dim out of respect. The babbling brook running through Whiterun was silenced, the wail of the wind over the flat plains surrounding he city were stilled. Somewhere distant, there was the sound of child squealing with laughter, but that too faded away.

“We grieve.” The Companions all chorused in unison.

“At this loss,” Ysolde gave a start as Vilkas spoke up beside her. His head was down cast and he looked angry. Or perhaps upset might be a more accurate description. She felt a twang of pity for him. She had never known her father, but she imagined if she had, losing him would not be an easy thing to bear.

“We weep.” Ysolde said this with her shield-siblings before stepping forward to say her piece, “For the fallen,”

“We shout.” And she wanted to. She wanted to track down every last Silver Hand and dragon-shout them into another plain of Oblivion.

“And for ourselves,” this was from Farkas, who sounded as sad as Aela looked.

“We take our leave.” The gathered Companions said this, some spitting it out as though expelling the words forcefully could thrust away the grief that came with it. It was almost a pity, Ysolde mused silently, that she had grown accustomed to the deaths of her brothers-in-arms. To share in that mutual sorrow would be have a bonding effect, especially for the younger ones.

Aela stepped forward and lowered her torch, almost reverently. Kodlak’s pyre went up in a great ‘whoosh’ of flames, doused in oil as it was.


End file.
